


like cat an dog

by DieLadi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animallock, Cat and dog, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:26:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25706623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieLadi/pseuds/DieLadi
Summary: "The curious and clever cat Sherlock Holmes prowls about on silent paws. John Watson, the young Labrador, is his best friend, brave and kindhearted. Together they solve a criminal case and find that their friendship can weather any storm."
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Wie Hund und Katze](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11878119) by [DieLadi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DieLadi/pseuds/DieLadi). 



> This is a translation to my story "Wie Hund und Katze", which you can find here on AO3. Please be aware that english is not my first language.

The tomcat lay on the warm shed roof and let the sun shine on his beautiful dark brown fur.  
He purred softly to himself and enjoyed the silence up here.  
His name was Sherlock, to be exact Sherlock Holmes, because he belonged to the Holmes family, and the roof on which he was resting at the moment belonged to the family's house in this quiet side street in a suburb of London.  
To be even more precise, Sherlock belonged to the son of the family, the eleven year old Mycroft. And this was the real reason why the cat had fled up here at this midday hour.

He liked Mycroft, really. He was kind and loving with him. It's just... ...normally, the boy was at boarding school during the week and only came home on weekends. But now, it was the holidays, Mycroft was home. And this morning, he got it into his head to play with Sherlock.  
Well, Sherlock liked that too. Chasing the little wind-up mouse was fun. Catching a ball was fun. Only the thing with the laser pointer - humans, really, only humans could get the crazy idea that a cat would fall for something like that. But humans in general were pretty stupid. Mycroft was quite smart compared to most other humans, he was even smarter than most adults, but he was nowhere near the intellect of a cat. And certainly not to Sherlock, who was now one of the cleverest of his kind.  
In any case, the silly hunt for the laser pointer's light spot was only for Mycroft's sake, because as previously mentioned, he liked him.

Mycroft liked to refer to himself as Sherlock's master. That was silly, because nobody was Sherlock's master, he was independent and free. Still, he liked being with him, even if he didn't necessarily admit it to everyone.  
Only this afternoon, at some point, it had become too much for him. After all, he was a cat, and as such he had a distinctive need for rest.  
So at some stage he had escaped and retreated to the roof of the shed.  
Mycroft was not angry with him. He knew that his cat loved him, but that he needed his space and he accepted that.

Sherlock purred in the warm sunshine and enjoyed the sounds and smells around him.  
He stretched and flexed and then curled himself up. The sun had warmed the roofing felt, so he was warmed from underneath while it also shone on his silky shiny fur, and he kept thinking about the humans.  
It was always amazing how little they understood. The mere fact that the language of the animals remained completely obscure to them, while animals, now definitely pets, understood every word the humans said.  
Imagine that. Sherlock had been hungry this morning after a long night's roaming around and a few hours of well-groomed sleep. During the holidays it was Mycroft's job to provide his food, and as much as he liked to stuff himself with cakes and other goodies, he sometimes forgot. And so it was today.  
Sherlock had been sitting down in front of him and muttered "I'm hungry, can you please feed me?". But, as usual, Mycroft had not been able to tell from his words or from his more than clear body language what was going on with his cat.

So Sherlock had been forced to run into the kitchen and bump his food bowl with his nose, making it clatter loudly across the tiled floor.  
It was embarrassing, downright shameful to have to show such behaviour as a cat. Well.  
Sherlock closed his eyes and decided to doze off a bit.  
The warm sun. The buzz of the bees in the tree growing next to the shed.  
No car to disturb this midday calm at this hour. Oh yes, it was lovely.

The silence was suddenly interrupted.  
"Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!“, there was a loud barking from downstairs.  
Sherlock startled and rolled his eyes.  
It was John, the young Labrador pup from the Watson family, yapping.  
"Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock! I know you're up there! There's something I need to tell you! Come down!"  
Sherlock got up slowly, he stretched again and came to the edge of the roof.  
"Jawn," he moaned, "What's so important you have to pull me out of my nap?"

John was still young and had only lived with the Watson family for a few weeks. He belonged to their nine-year-old daughter Harriet, who looked after him lovingly, but also gave him space. After all, nothing could happen here on this street, and so John was allowed to roam outside during the day when Harriet was busy with school or playing with her friends, as now during the holidays.  
Sherlock liked John, and John liked him too, although Sherlock had at first been rather dismissive. In fact, they had developed a firm animal friendship, which surprised Sherlock again and again, because he was sometimes, well, not very accessible. But John liked him, and once John had taken him into his big heart, he would not let him get away from it; and Sherlock had simply not been able to resist this touchingly displayed affection.

So he was only seemingly annoyed when he leapt with an elegant leap into the tree next to the shed, climbed down the rough crust of the tree and sat down on the ground next to John.  
"Well, Jawn, what is going on?"  
"Sherlock!" barked John. "I have something to tell you!"

At that moment, the door to the Watsons' house opened and Harriet stepped out.  
"John!" she shouted. "John, over here!"  
John looked around in a hurry. Harriet had not yet discovered him.  
"Come, better not here," he yapped, while he was already in full run and disappeared around the corner of the shed.  
Sherlock dashed after him, because if John, who was normally downright dog-like devoted to his mistress, deliberately ignored her calls, then that must mean something.

John had hidden in the bushes behind the Holmes' house.  
Sherlock crawled to him, shaking his head. He hated bushes. He hated it when leaves or even thorns got caught in his fur or pierced his sensitive skin. He sighed.  
What a lot of things one does for a friend.

"So, Jawn," mewed Sherlock, "what's so important you had to hide from your mistress?"  
John sat down on his little doggy bottom, wagged his tail excitedly and began to tell.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock," he said as he tilted his head a little, "you told me about those strange suicides that have been happening all over town, didn't you?"  
Sherlock nodded.  
Yes, he had overheard about it. Mycroft, though so young, read the newspaper every morning when his father finished. Sherlock loved to lie on his lap and have his ears scratched. And Mycroft, on the other hand, liked to have the cat purring softly on his lap, and he had got into the habit of reading him some articles that interested him particularly.  
"Sometimes," he had said the other day, "you look so attentive, Sherlock, that one could almost doubt that you are really just an animal, and one would almost assume you understand every word."  
Sherlock had mewed, thinking, "If you only knew... “

Well, at least that's how Sherlock knew about these suicides.  
There were three now, but the police investigated, simply because a series of suicides following the same pattern was unusual.  
All the victims, if you want to call them that, had obviously swallowed a poison capsule and all of them had been found in places they had no connection to.

So Sherlock nodded and looked at the little dog questioningly. John's tail knocked excitedly on the floor when he said, "Well, another one has happened. Right here in this neighbourhood."  
"What?!" Sherlock looked at John with interest.  
"Yes, and this time the dead woman is the mother of one of Harriet's school friends. And Harriet is upset herself. And the police are still on the scene..."  
John's voice became agitated.  
"And why are you telling me this now?" asked Sherlock, who seemed calm on the outside. He was a cat, after all, he owed himself something, and as a self-respecting cat he didn't jump around like a young Labrador.  
"Well, because you're so smart, and Harriet is so upset for her friend's sake. So I thought maybe you could... solve the mystery."  
Sherlock put his tail elegantly curved around his hind legs.  
He licked his paw and cleaned behind his left ear. He did it so he could think for a few seconds.  
"Well, I... could try," he said slowly.  
John barked and jumped around him, causing him to roll his eyes.  
"Keep it down," he hissed at John, "or Harriet will find us."  
"But... But I want to go straight to her anyway, she's called me, you see..."  
Sherlock hissed again.  
"No way, Jawn."  
Sherlock gave the little dog a long, penetrating look, then he calmed down and sat back down.  
"You, my dear," mewed Sherlock, "will be my assistant. I need an assistant, and you are..." invaluable, he thought, but he just said. "quite well suited for the job."

Yeah, that was John, actually. He wasn't nearly as clever as Sherlock, and in his relationship with people, especially Harriet, he was what you might call submissive. He was a typical dog.  
But he was faithful and loyal, and Sherlock appreciated that. And John, as young as he was, had already defended him against the Anderson tomcat that was terrorising the whole neighbourhood.  
Anderson was stupid, but big, heavy and aggressive, and Sherlock would not have stood a physical chance against him in a catfight.  
When Anderson had attacked him the other day, John had stepped in. He had suffered a few wounds, but in the end he had won, and now the unpleasant bastard didn't dare come near Sherlock any more, for which he was really grateful.

John looked at him in awe.  
"Really? Your assistant? Really?" he barked gleefully.  
And before Sherlock knew it, John had licked him right across the mouth with his warm tongue.  
Sherlock smiled crookedly and now also licked John gently across his muzzle with his tongue.  
"But that will mean, my dear John, that every now and then, for example now, you have to disobey dear Harriet a little. Can you manage that?"  
John looked a little startled and let his head hang down.  
But then he tightened and squeaked softly:  
"If it's necessary, I think I can manage."

"Well," Sherlock said, "I suppose we'd better have a look. Where exactly is the crime scene?"  
"Come on, I'll show you," said John, and jumped up. Then he ran off, and Sherlock had to make an effort to follow him, so quickly the puppy flew away.  
They could still hear Harriet calling out after John, who immediately felt guilty. But decided was decided, and John was not one to be fickle in his once made decisions.  
He yelps, "Sorry, important!" in Harriet's direction and then dashes off.

Sherlock had to smile.  
Surely John was aware that Harriet did not understand him. Humans were so limited in their thinking, it was pathetic.  
But John, well, John didn't think with his head, he thought with his heart. And that's what made him so special.  
He didn't spend much time thinking about whether it was worthwhile to help a friend.  
He just did.  
He didn't take long to think about whether it was right and proper to be nice and friendly. He just was.  
He loved his mistress from an honest, pure heart, and so he just shouted an apology to her, knowing that she would not understand it, but he was convinced that subconsciously she would somehow understand that he was not disobedient out of bad will, but had his good reasons.

All in all, John was a friend, as one could not wish for better.  
And no matter how much Sherlock had resisted this friendship at first, simply because he thought friendships as such were unnecessary, well, except for those with Mycroft, but that was different; no matter how dismissive he had been to John at first, he was now grateful and happy to call the good-hearted young dog his friend.

And so, gasping for breath, he ran after his buddy, to expirience a thrilling riddle, an adventure.


	3. Chapter 3

They raced around a few street corners until John suddenly stopped abruptly. So unexpectedly, Sherlock almost collided with him and angrily snapped at him.  
John pulled in his tail in fright and licked the cat’s mouth apologetically. Sherlock just couldn't stay mad at him.  
"Over there," panting John. "There it is."  
Sherlock looked in the direction indicated.

The house he was walking round was crawling with police, of course. A yellow and black cordon was put up to prevent onlookers from entering.  
Sherlock licked his paw thoughtfully. "I have to get in," he said softly.  
They looked at each other. John sighed.  
"I'll distract them," he said.  
Sherlock nodded at his friend. "Yes, that's a good idea. I'm sure you'll do an excellent job."

John walked towards the officer who was standing behind the barrier tape, wagging his tail and whimpering. She was out of uniform so she was obviously part of the investigating brigade.  
John's cuteness was an effective weapon. The woman leaned over, scratched him behind the ears and said, "Well, who are you?"  
"John," barked John, who was too polite not to introduce himself, "but I already know that you don't understand me anyway."  
"Donovan?", shouted someone from the door of the house. "Coming!" yelled Donovan.  
She stroked John again over the head and called out to the two uniformed officers near the door:  
"Make sure the little guy doesn't do anything stupid around here!"  
John now had the attention of the two men.

Sherlock had used the distraction to sneak into the bushes near the front door And now he managed to wade into the house, almost under the eyes of the police. But humans were so inattentive. How on earth could they solve such a murder case? If it was a murder...  
Sherlock scurried down the hall behind the small shoe cupboard and made himself very thin. How good it is that cats are able to squeeze themselves into gaps that are actually much too small.  
His fine ears oriented themselves and so he soon got an overview of the situation.

The body lay in the living room. It was not her house, to be exact this house here was uninhabited and was for sale. The woman had had no connection to this place, except that she lived in the neighborhood like the Watsons and the Holmes.  
Well, it was no help, he had to go to the room where the victim was.  
There were two plain-clothed men in the room, one of them obviously the lead investigator and the other one was wearing such a strange protective suit and tampering with the body, so he seemed to be from Forensics. Sherlock knew a bit, thanks to Mycroft reading the morning papers.

True to the motto "cheeky wins out" Sherlock walked into the room, mewed so that their heads turned towards him, ran to the window and jumped onto the wide, sunlit windowsill. Then he sat down almost majestically, licked his paw and began to clean as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  
"Lestrade? What's the cat doing here?!" said the guy in the protective suit.  
"Well, oops, who are you?", the other one, Lestrade, asked in Sherlock's direction.  
"Do you live here?"  
Sherlock had to pull himself together, not to roll his eyes.  
Him, live here? In a vacant house? Well, he was obviously an exceedingly well-groomed and well-fed domestic cat, not a stray. Not that he had anything against strays, on the contrary. His best informants when it came to keeping an eye on what was going on in the neighbourhood (and Sherlock was endowed with a curiosity that was unusual even for a cat) were the stray cats that lived in empty houses, cellars, sheds and the like.  
Nevertheless, he could only shake his head at the assumption that he was also a stray animal. It was simply obvious that he did not live on rubbish and that he also had his fur brushed regularly.  
Humans. They just had a pitifully underdeveloped power of observation.

He rubbed his head against Lestrade's hand, which the man had carefully stretched out to him and purred.  
"Lestrade, get that beast out of here!" the guy in the hazmat suit was ranting.  
"Now hold on Anderson," said Lestrade. Sherlock grinned. Anderson, like the disgusting cat that John had given a good thrashing. And this person here seemed just as likeable.  
"After all, we've covered all the tracks, so let's just leave the animal alone," Lestrade continued.  
"He seems to have found a dry spot here. I wouldn't want to take that away from him. Tell the undertaker Mrs. Wilson can be taken away."  
Ah, Mrs. Wilson was the name of the woman. Right; he remembered Harriet's schoolmate. Clara Wilson. And this was now her mother. Well...

The undertaker was about to arrive, so Sherlock had to hurry up.  
He let his eyes wander across the room. He wanted to get closer to the woman, but surely even friendly Lestrade wouldn't have allowed that.

So he looked around.  
The woman was wearing a dreadful pink, the varnish on her nails and the lipstick were matched to it. An office job, probably in the media. advertising agency or something of the sort, who else would be walking around all dressed up.  
The coat was damp; you could see that because the wet parts were darker.  
Raised collar, also damp. So she had been out in rainy, stormy weather. It hadn't rained in London, neither today nor last night.  
So she'd been out of town.  
Shiny, polished jewellery, except for her wedding ring. Unhappy in her marriage.  
Anderson took the ring off to put it in a bag. One could see it was shining inside. So she had lovers, it seamed she took it off regularly.  
Well.  
Then the suitcase. The splashes on the right of her silk stocking-clad legs showed that... Wait.  
There was no suitcase here.

Now he had no choice: he jumped from the window and ran across the room. Then into the hall. To the kitchen, upstairs...  
There was no suitcase. There had to be a suitcase, damn it!  
"Hello, Kitty?" he heard Lestrade calling. Let him shout as well.  
He, Sherlock, would have to scurry back to John for a while.  
John wasn't nearly as clever as him, but sometimes he asked the right questions and he'd help him find it. Because there had to be a suitcase. And if it wasn't there, Sherlock was sure, there must be a good reason.


	4. Chapter 4

He found John behind the next corner of the house.  
The little dog wagged his tail excitedly when he saw his friend, the cat, coming.  
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he barked, "Have you found out anything?"  
"Jawn, keep it down. We don't want them to chase us out of here. You know what humans are like."  
John looked guilty and squeaked softly.  
"It's all right," mumbled Sherlock. "Come on."  
And he went ahead, a few street corners away.

"Well, John, I didn't find much. Just that one suitcase is missing. She must have had one, but it's not here. And she wasn't in London overnight. Have you heard anything from Harriet about this?"  
The puppy nodded eagerly.  
"Yes, Sherlock. The woman is Clara's mum, Harriet's best friend. And she works for a manufacturer of pet food. As a sales representative." John licked his snout.  
Sherlock smiled. John was a cute little fella, really.

"Well, that's why she's always travelling. I think she went to Cardiff yesterday. And was due back today.  
And then teenagers found her in that empty house. And now Clara's all distraught. And Harry's sad, and I don't like that."  
John's had his ears down. You could tell he was suffering with his mistress. He just had a good heart.  
Sherlock swallowed. He'd always found the whole thing an interesting mystery. No more, no less.  
But now, when he saw his friend sitting in front of him, with his ears drooping and his tail between his legs, he realized that there was much more at stake. And against his habit of looking at everything with a certain arrogance and above all distance, he began to feel pity. This was new and unusual, but somehow he liked it. It gave him a warmth of heart that he had never felt before.  
'John, you are making me soft', he thought, but the next moment he shook his head over himself. 'Oh, no. Actually it only makes me ... well... ...more agreeable. And who knows what the point of that is again.'  
He sighed and now licked his friend gently across the muzzle.

John's tail started pounding the floor again. John's cheerful disposition was not easily broken.  
"Well," he barked softly, "and so I thought, if you take care of this and find out what's going on and who did this, then it won't give Clara back her mum either," he sighed, "but maybe it'll be easier for her to cope, you know?"  
Sherlock nodded and smiled.  
"And for Harriet too, eh, Jawn?"  
John nodded.  
"Yeah, for Harriet too."

"Well, anyway," Sherlock went on, "she must have had a suitcase with her. And it's not there. We need to find it."  
"But," John objected, "she lives nearby. Two streets away. Maybe she took it home first."  
The look the cat gave the puppy was so embarrassing it almost drowned him in the ground. An overly clear expression without words: "Oh, please, John."  
John whimpered.  
"No," said Sherlock, trying to sound patient.  
"She was wearing a wet coat, her stockings had been splashed with dirt and the nail polish on her right hand was splintered. A well-styled woman like her would have fixed it if she'd first been home. And if there hadn't been time, she would have at least changed her wet coat."

"Then let's find the suitcase," John barked eagerly.  
"Yes," mumbled Sherlock. "You can search around the house. "But please, don't get yourself noticed. I myself will search the nearby rubbish bins."  
Dustbins. He cringed at the very thought. But he had to do it himself, and he couldn't ask John to do it, just because the dog was no good at climbing.  
Sherlock sighed. HepProbably wouldn't be able to avoid getting his fur dirty. But Mycroft would look after him.

Every few months the boy would come up with the idea of bathing his cat anyway, and unlike most cats, Sherlock enjoyed it. He found it very pleasant when warm water and soft foam was spread throughout his fur. Mycroft was careful and made sure that nothing got into his eyes or sensitive nose. Afterwards he rubbed him dry with a soft towel and brushed his fur.  
The thought of this made Sherlock purr and also made him put up with the thought of garbage cans.

"Good," barked John. "I'll do my best. Will I meet you back here?"  
"Yes," said Sherlock, looking at the clock at the bus stop opposite, "in two hours."  
John gave him a questioning look.  
Oh, yes, he couldn't make heads or tails of the human time. He, Sherlock, had learned it from Mycroft.  
He thought about it frantically.  
"So, John, when... ..um... .. when Mr. Perrish drives his car into the driveway..."  
John was beaming. Yeah, that was all right. He could tell. Mr. Perrish, an office worker with a job in the city, came home from work at the same time every day.

Sherlock was stretching. Oh, yeah, sometimes it was tough with all the idiots around. Well, he didn't even mean the word "idiot" badly at all; it was just that everyone else was not as intelligent as he was for a long stretch and sometimes they didn't see the simplest things. Even Mycroft could be so obtuse at times.

"Now then, off you go. See you later, my assistant," he muttered, and watched with a smile as his friend ran towards the house, wagging his tail in joy and proud of his own importance.  
He himself set off as well.  
There was much to do.


	5. Chapter 5

So they both went to work.  
John started sniffing around the bushes around the house, wagging his tail. He was almost over-zealous, a real puppy, in fact. Sherlock sighed. It wasn't particularly subtle.  
But well, it wasn't that bad, because you couldn't expect to find the case there. It was much more likely that someone had thrown it into one of the garbage cans nearby, hoping that the police wouldn't know about the suitcase, which was true at first, and by the time they did, the garbage collectors would have taken action. Calculable risk, knowing how stupid the police were, Sherlock thought.

So he headed for the rubbish bins. Behind the next street corner was the first rubbish tip.  
He jumped onto the edge of the first bin, the lid of which was a bit high because it was so full. It was an advantage that the last pickup day was almost a week ago. So several tons would be full enough for him to squeeze through a gap and see the contents.

About two hours later, as he trotted towards their meeting place as agreed, he was duly fed up.  
He was dirty. His fur was sticky. With his left paw he had just stepped into a rotten tuna can, earlier a plastic bucket with a rest of white wall paint had tipped over diagonally above him and had spread its contents in his fur. Behind his right ear there was a sucked-on candy, and no, he just couldn't bring himself to lick those disgusting things out of his fur.  
It was probably better that way.

To make matters worse, he hadn't found anything. Nothing! No suitcase, but not a trace!  
Well, he hadn't been able to search all the barrels, but he hadn't thought it would be so difficult.  
One look at John's droopy ears was enough for him to see that he had not been successful either.  
"Nothing," Sherlock said to his little friend. "Bloody hell, we'll have to think about how to proceed in peace and quiet. But first I have to go home. I feel terrible."  
He wrinkled his nose.  
John, who had restrained himself politely the whole time, nodded. "Yes," he said somewhat embarrassed, "you stink."  
Sherlock hissed in his direction, but then said, "Sorry, you're right. So let's both flit home, me to myself, you to yours, and we'll meet up again at dusk, yeah?"  
John nodded, but added:  
"If Harriet doesn't lock me up tonight... because I ran away from her earlier."  
"Come on," Sherlock said, and he set off.

As they approached the Watsons' house, everything seemed to be quiet there. Too quiet. John sniffed at the front door. His fine nose told him that no one was there. Normally, Harriet would never have left when he was out and about. But normally he was not far from the house and would come as soon as she called him. But today was different.  
John sighed heavily.  
"Well," he said to the cat, "I'll have to wait out here on the porch. I have a blanket lying here, on which I can make myself comfortable. So it's not too bad."  
But then he added, "If only I wasn't so hungry..."

Sherlock took a moment to reflect.  
"You know what? Come back to our place. Mycroft's home now, I'm sure he'll have advice. Because, for a human, he's far less stupid than you'd expect."  
John looked at him gratefully, and this time he didn't lick his face, but the only reason he didn't lick it was because it was also very dirty.

Arriving at the Holmes', Sherlock said:  
"Wait out here, I'll make sure Mycroft lets you in. When he opens the door, we'll show him we're friends and then you just follow me, okay?"  
He slipped through the cat flap himself, sat down on the floor of the corridor and began to mew with a real heart-breaking sound. He just didn't want to walk around the house all dirty like that.

You could hear it rumbling upstairs in Mycroft's room and seconds later the boy came running down the stairs.  
"Good Lord, Sherlock, what have you done? Look at you!"  
Mycroft was absolutely terrified.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and before Mycroft could get at him, he'd wiped out through the flap.  
When the boy had opened the door and stepped onto the porch, he had sat down very close to John and licked him over his nose in a friendly manner. John sneezed.  
Mycroft had to laugh.

"Well, look who you've brought with you. A friend of yours?"  
He looked closer.  
"It's the Watson boy, isn't it?"  
Sherlock had jumped up and flown away through Mycroft's legs, towards the kitchen. John barked softly and ran after him, but around the boy. Once in the kitchen, Sherlock pushed his bowl in front of John's paws, who looked at him questioningly.  
"Too bad humans don't understand our language. That's why we have to make it as clear to him as possible what we want."

Mycroft came running after them.  
He saw the scene and understood. "I saw the Watsons were all out. Harry's gone off with her friend Clara," he said. "And now I suppose your friend is hungry?"  
Sherlock purred.  
"Mmm, what are we going to do. We don't keep dog food in the house. And human food is not healthy for dogs, especially not for young ones like you, my friend," he said as he stroked John. John's tail slapped the floor as he licked the boy's hand.

"Well," said Mycroft, "'before I take you, my dear one," and he carefully poked Sherlock's left ear, "to do a thorough wash, I will ring Mr. Perrish's doorbell. Whose son works for the pet food company. Perhaps Mr. Perrish has some sample packages in the house. You two stay here. I'll be right back."

And as he walked quickly to the Perrish father and son's house, Sherlock and John looked at each other in amazement.  
They had not known this, in fact.


	6. Chapter 6

"Now you're going to get something to eat," said Sherlock, "and I'm going to get this stuff washed out of my fur, and then we'll figure out what to do together."  
John wagged his tail.  
"Sherlock," he barked softly.  
"It's great fun being your assistant."  
Sherlock smiled. The little guy was just sweet. And he had to admit, it did help, having him by his side. It was strange, because Sherlock had always been a loner and had felt no need for friendship. But since John was in his life, things had changed.  
And he appreciated that.  
"It's good to have you as an assistant," he mewed and noted with delight that John's tail began to wag more quickly and he pricked up his ears very attentively.  
"Well," said Sherlock embarrassed, "you... you just watch my back..."

That was when Mycroft entered the kitchen.  
Sherlock was quite happy, because, admittedly, he was not good at this sort of talk, and John now turned his attention hopefully to Mycroft.  
He actually had two small packets of dog food in his hand.  
"Mr. Perrish did have something in the house," he said. "He even had some extra puppy food. It'll do you good, my little one."  
He took a little bowl out of the cupboard, filled it and put it down in front of John, who immediately began to eat it with ravenous appetite. He put another bowl of water next to it.  
And Sherlock realised, once again, he really liked his master. He was even a little bit proud of how lovingly he looked after his friend John.

"The second box of food," Mycroft said, "I put on the shelf. And I think I'll make sure we always have some dog food in the house for similar emergencies, won't I?" And he stroked John gently across his back. The puppy enjoyed it, but didn't let that stop him from eating.

Mycroft now turned to his cat. He fetched a baby bathtub, bought for the purpose, put it on the kitchen table and filled it with a little lukewarm water, into which he put some shampoo, especially for cats.  
Then he grabbed Sherlock and put him in it.  
He was always amazed at how willingly the cat put up with it. Sherlock could be bitchy, he was stubborn and Mycroft had certainly felt his claws at times. But he seemed to really enjoy the bathing.  
Mycroft washed him gently, and after he had removed all the rubbish from his fur, he rinsed carefully with clear water.  
Then he put him on a fresh, fluffy towel and carefully rubbed Sherlock's fur dry.

"So, my friend, now you look civilized again. I suppose you're hungry now too?"  
Sherlock mewed, and Mycroft also filled his bowl and water dish.  
And the cat relished it.  
And when he'd had his fill he snuggled up by John's side.  
"A bit of rest won't hurt now, won't it, Jawn?" he moaned wearily as his eyes almost closed.  
He smiled as he heard the puppy snoring by his side and then he too fell asleep.

Mycroft smiled when he saw the two animals sleeping so snugly together.  
He picked up his smartphone and took a photo of the cute situation. He would show it to Harriet. Surely she would enjoy it too...  
Harriet. Mycroft, he blushed a bit.  
He liked Harriet.  
The boys in his class at boarding school all thought girls were silly, more or less. And generally, they were right. But Harriet...was different. You could actually have a decent conversation with her. She was quite clever, and she loved to help father Watson when he tinkered with his old motorbike. She did it quite skilfully, he thought, and she was very smart.  
Mycroft, who had no craftsmanship of his own, and who shuddered at the thought of getting motor oil on himself, was quite impressed.  
Well, anyway, it was to be assumed that she would be happy about the photo and he wanted to make her happy.

* * *

Sherlock woke up because someone was licking his muzzle and this someone turned out to be John of course.  
"Sherlock?" squeaked the puppy. "Are you awake?"  
"I am now," hissed Sherlock, who did not like being woken.  
He looked around for the kitchen clock. It showed just before eight.  
"Sherlock, I think we've slept late. And the Watsons are home again. I heard the car in the driveway, and I heard Harriet's voice."  
"It's okay, go home," Sherlock muttered. He stretched out once in a cat-like fashion, then shook himself.  
"But if Harriet doesn't lock you in, I'll meet you when it gets dark. It's best if you come and join me on the veranda. I will wait here in the hall in my basket. I'll hear when you're there."  
John barked briefly and then ran to the front door. Sherlock ran after him.  
John, young as he was, was taller than Sherlock, the cat flap was too small for him.  
"It's best to bark, so Mycroft will notice and let you out."

A short time later, after his friend had flown away, Sherlock lay in the basket, thinking. There was another basket in Mycroft's room, but he wanted to stay down here now so he wouldn't miss John when he came back, and Mycroft accepted that.

So, what was to happen now? Where could that suitcase be?  
They' d have to search the back yards of the area. And if it wasn't there, then, Sherlock, he'd have to think of something else.  
He wanted the case solved. He was touched by his friend's faith in his intelligence.  
He also wanted John to be happy and content. And the only way he could do that was if Harriet was getting better. And her well-being depended at that moment on her friend Clara.  
...so all he could do was give everything he had to find out the secret.

He put his tail in an elegant pose around his body, twitched his ears and fell asleep again.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke up as the cat flap rattled. He blinked and saw John's sniffing little snout first. Afterwards the whole head of the Labrador slid through.  
"Sherlock!" he barked softly. "I'm back!"  
"Good," muttered Sherlock. "I'm coming, Jawn."  
He stretched so long, he even got hjs claws out. When he had thus stretched extensively, he brushed just behind the left ear, as something itched there, and then he made his way to the cat flap.  
He stepped outside and John greeted him joyfully, wagging his tail and licking him.  
"Now calm down, John, we don't want to wake up the whole house, do we?"  
"Oh... sorry," said John and looked guilty. But his tail kept moving and his flashing eyes looked anything but guilty.  
Sherlock smiled.

"What are we going to do now, Sherlock?!", the little one panting, and you could see that he was curious and full of energy.  
"Well, let's search the back yards of the area," Sherlock said. "For the suitcase, or any other clue. At the moment, I don't know how else to go about it."  
"Yes," squeaked the puppy. "And... ..er, Sherlock, where do we start?"  
"Here," meowed the cat, and had already scampered around the Holmes' house. He was planning to start searching in his own back yard. You never knew.

This time, they didn't separate. In the evening in the darkness the tomcat Anderson was on the way and Sherlock did not like to meet this unpleasant animal without his brave friend.  
The nearest yard was the one behind the Watsons' house. Nothing.  
Go on, then. Yard after yard. Nothing.  
Finally, they arrived at the Perrishes' yard.  
"Sherlock," John panting excitedly, "it smells like Clara's mum in here!"  
And he started sniffing. He was only little, but he was good at it. He was picking up a trail.  
Finally, he scratched at the door of a small shed, which obviously had gardening tools and the like.  
"Keep it down, John," hissed Sherlock. John sat down on his dog's bottom, looking at him expectantly.  
"There's something in there," he snorted.

Sherlock looked at the shed. Up there, to the right of the door, was a window, made of dusty, milky glass. The cat easily managed to climb up the wooden shed wall and balance on the narrow ledge. There was not much to see, but the pink of the suitcase was visible despite the darkness.  
They had found it.  
No, Sherlock had to admit, John had found it.

Sherlock jumped down again and licked his rough cat's tongue gently over his friend's muzzle. The dog squeaked contentedly.  
"What's going to happen now?" he then asked.  
Yes, what would happen now...  
That was a good question. And as much as Sherlock twisted and turned it around. They needed help. Human help.  
"Well," he said, "we have to... get someone. A human being. And get him to notify the police."  
John nodded eagerly.  
"I'll run and fetch Harriet." And he was ready to go.  
"No!" cried Sherlock. "Wait!"  
John sat back down, but fidgeted anxiously on his backside.  
"Listen. It's better if we get Mycroft. Harriet's a great girl and I know you really care about her..."  
"I love her," John said softly,  
"...yes, all right. But this is what Mycroft is better at, you see? He'll do the right thing... I hope."  
Oh, it's too bad humans couldn't understand animal language. It would have made things so much easier.

"All right," John said. "I'm going to get Mycroft."  
"And how do you plan to do that?"  
"Leave it to me," and the little doggy had scampered off.  
Sherlock sat in front of the shed door, kept an eye on the area and waited.

John had reached the Holmes' house. He ran single-mindedly onto the veranda, put his head through the cat flap and sniffed. His fine nose told him that the family was in the living room. Great, that was on the ground floor. They would definitely hear him there. He started barking loudly.

It took only seconds before the living room door was ripped open and three rather stunned people stormed into the hallway.  
"Good heavens, what's going on here?" Mrs. Holmes asked startled, and Father Holmes grabbed a broom to chase the little one away.  
Mycroft stood protectively in front of John, who, however, had taken precautions to keep his muzzle safe and was now waiting outside on the terrace.  
"This is the Watson's puppy," the boy said. "He's been hanging around with Sherlock lately. I'll have a look."

And Mycroft stepped out onto the terrace. He bent down and stroked John's head, which John enjoyed very much.  
"Hey, kiddo, if you're looking for Sherlock, he's not here. I don't know where that little rascal is."  
John barked again.  
"Come on, Mycroft, Sherlock needs your help!"  
But of course, the boy didn't understand a word.

John yapped briefly, then spun around in circles. For God's sake, Mycroft had to understand that help was needed!  
"So, I don't know," Mrs Holmes said, "I think Mikey, you should take the little fella over to the house. I think the Watsons might already be looking for him!"  
Mycroft, who was annoyed by the nickname, replied:  
"I will, Mummy", and before John knew it, he had grabbed the kicking little dog firmly in his arms.


	8. Chapter 8

To hold on to such a fidgeting little dog that does not want to be held is not very easy. Because even though cats are generally the ones with the sharp claws, the little claws on the dog's paws can be quite annoying when such an animal struggles and fidgets and wriggles.  
So in the end, Mycroft had no choice but to let go of John and put him on the ground, just to avoid the little one falling off. After all, he didn't want him to hurt himself.

No sooner did John's paws touch the ground than he ran a few yards ahead, barked, turned once around himself and barked again.  
Mycroft looked at him in amazement, then looked questioningly at his parents.  
"I think he wants me to follow him."  
"Maybe something's happened to Sherlock," Mother Holmes said, somewhat worried. "Just follow him and let us know as soon as you can, do you hear?"  
Mycroft nodded and trotted off.  
John ran ahead, but kept looking back to make sure the boy did not lose him.

So they finally arrived at the Perrish's property and John began to scratch at the door of the shed with his front paws.  
Mycroft understood.  
"You want to show me something in there, don't you?"  
John barked briefly and wagged his tail.  
Mycroft was quite tall for his age, so he managed to peer through the small window. The window was dirty, the glass was cloudy, and yet he could see the pink suitcase at once.  
At that moment he felt a movement at his feet. He looked down and saw his tomcat Sherlock, who stroked his legs with a mew.  
"Sherlock! Thank God you're all right, aren't you?"  
Sherlock mewed again, took a running jump onto the narrow ledge of the small window. He scratched briefly and something fell from the ledge right down into the grass at Mycroft's feet.  
The boy bent down to pick it up. It was a small rusty beard key.

"Is this the key to the shed? I must say, you are a clever little fellow, my pussycat."  
He scratched Sherlock's head, wondering whether or not he should enter the shed. It's not like you can just walk into other people's premises without asking permission. On the other hand, there was this pink suitcase, and Mycroft, of course, had read all about the strange murder of Mrs Wilson in the papers. He knew that Clara Wilson was a friend of Harriet... Well, and so he had also read that the lady had been dressed all in pink, including nail varnish and lipstick. The press had not been too good for those details.

And now here in the Perrish's shed lay a suitcase in screaming pink. And why should they have such a thing, after all, both were men of good standing. He thought for a moment of Mrs. Perrish, who died two years ago. She had been a haggard grey mouse and it was hard to imagine that this should have been her suitcase.  
So Mycroft sighed and unlocked the shed door.

The shed was dark and smelled of turpentine and dust. He couldn't see much, so he decided to take the risk and use the small mini torch hanging from his keychain. But before he could do that, he opened the small window and put it on tilt. If Mr. Perrish surprised him in his shed, he could claim that his tomcat had squeezed through the window and was now trapped in the shed and he wanted to free him.  
The window was stuck, but with a little pressure and pull it came loose, and that was that.

So Mycroft switched on the small lamp and let the narrow beam of light glide over the suitcase. The colour was indeed hideous.  
It wasn't as dusty as the rest of the items found here in this wooden crate. It seemed quite new. Mycroft was about to grab the handle to see if he could open it when he flinched back in shock.  
Was that... blood?!

He swallowed with a start and his mind was racing.  
What to do now? This went beyond what he could decide and handle on his own.  
Mycroft was clever, far cleverer than others his age. But he was still a child. An 11-year-old boy who, at that moment, was overwhelmed by the situation.  
And so he did what children all over the world do when they don't know what to do, and what is best and only right in such a situation: he ran to ask his parents for advice.

He stormed out of the shed and shouted softly:  
"Sherlock, come with me," knowing full well that his cat wouldn't be impressed, but would simply do what he thought was right.  
He patted his thigh and shouted in the direction of the Labrador puppy:  
"Come little one!"  
John, who knew this gesture from Harriet when she would happily chase him around the garden, barked enthusiastically, then remembered that it would be better not to make any noise and ran after him. To be more precise, he overtook him and ran ahead, back and romped around him. He was just a puppy and had a strong play instinct.

"Mummy! Daddy!"  
Mycroft stormed onto the veranda where his parents were still waiting.  
"Jesus, Mycroft, what happened?" cried Mrs Holmes, startled.  
Mycroft stood there breathlessly, and as Sherlock leapt elegantly onto the verandah parapet, the boy managed to calm the excited puppy by tapping and stroking him a little.  
Then he told his parents about the suitcase.

Mr and Mrs Holmes looked at each other. What could they do? Talk to Mr. Perrish?  
Well, that would be the most obvious... On the other hand, if he had anything to do with the whole thing...?  
Mr. Perrish himself was a friendly, a bit uptight but harmless neighbor.  
But his son... he'd caused trouble in the past.  
However, after some discussion, which left Mycroft bobbing his feet up and down, it was decided, albeit with an uneasy feeling in their stomachs, to call the police.  
So Mr Holmes took the telephone and dialled Scotland Yard.


	9. Chapter 9

The police had come quite fast. To be precise, a police car had stopped in front of the Holmes' house, from which Detective Inspector Lestrade, the officer in charge of the murder of Mrs. Wilson, as well as Anderson from Forensics and a young policeman had got out. They had briefly listened to what Mycroft had to say, then packed him and Father Holmes into the car and drove over to the Perrishs' house.  
John and Sherlock had followed the car, it was only round the corner.

Once there, Lestrade had rung Mr. Perrish out of the house. He was out of his head. No, he did not have a pink suitcase. Nor did his son. Where is he now? With his girlfriend. Yes, he could call him if the gentlemen wanted him to... ...later. Later. Okay. No, it wouldn't have been his wife's suitcase either, God forbid.  
No, he wouldn't have seen the case go into the shed. Yeah, he was home all day, he was on holiday this week. His son wouldn't have been home for two days. So he couldn't take the suitcase to the shed... He had to leave the conclusions to the police. Sorry.

Now Mr. Perrish, who looked rather confused and startled, was standing outside the shed in the company of the young policeman and Mycroft, who had been asked to stay, he would be questioned more closely later.  
Sherlock had also crept back into the shed and sat quiet as a mouse on a dusty shelf between two jars of preserved plums. He pricked up his ears and watched exactly what happened there.

Anderson and Lestrade had put on gloves and looked at the case from all sides. Anderson was carrying a briefcase with the most important working materials, including a rapid blood test. He took a tiny sample of the brown substance stuck to one corner of the suitcase and tested it. It was immediately determined that it was indeed blood.

The two of them looked at each other in a very meaningful way.  
Then they opened the suitcase carefully. It could be locked with a simple combination lock, but it turned out that the correct numerical code had been set, so that the snap-lock opened immediately when Anderson tried it.  
They opened it.  
Surprisingly, there were several small cans of dog and cat food inside, all marked "Free sample", and a mobile phone, also coloured in the same alarming pink, with a label bearing the name "Jennifer Wilson".  
Anderson had the cell phone disappear into an evidence bag.  
"We're taking this with us. We'd better contact Mrs. Wilson's husband right away, see if he knows the access number. If we're lucky, the phone might give us some information. And the case goes to the lab."

Lestrade now left the shed and turned to Mycroft.  
"Now, tell me again, what were you doing in your neighbour's shed?"  
Mycroft swallowed.  
"Well, here's what happened. I thought my cat was in there. He's a bit of an adventurer, that one. And the Watson's dog is his mate, they're always off together. And the dog, John, was scratching at the door like a madman, so I thought Sherlock was in there. And then I looked in the window, and then I saw the suitcase, and I remembered about the pink murder case, and then I ran to my parents."

Mycroft had gone to extra trouble to appear more childish and naive than he normally did. He didn't like that, but he felt it would go down better with this DI, who was obviously a man with a big heart. It seemed to work.  
Lestrade smiled at him almost fatherly.  
"You should take better care of your cat. I think I saw him the other day at the house where poor Mrs. Wilson was found. Anyway, there was a cat prowling around there that looked a lot like him. You'd better watch out for him. Don't let him go poking around anywhere else where he might be in real danger."  
Mycroft nods.  
"I'll try,' he said, knowing full well there was no chance of that. There was nothing he could do to stop his cat from doing anything unless he kept him locked up in the house. But that would destroy the proud and freedom-loving animal.  
So he chose to put up with the constant worry about Sherlock.  
However, he had already noticed that little John was bravely protecting him, and that helped to calm him down a bit.

While Anderson closed the suitcase, put it in an evidence bag and carried it to the car, Lestrade made sure that the young colleague locked the shed and cordoned it off with black and yellow crime scene tape. Forensics were already on their way here and would examine it even more closely.

Mr. Perrish was asked to call his son, ask him to come home, but not to say why. The poor man was so shocked by the fact that the suitcase of a murder victim had been found in his shed that he put up with everything without resistance and did what was asked of him.

Sherlock had absorbed it all, and was now trying to sort through the information.  
Mr Perrish's son worked for the same company as the murdered Mrs Wilson, that much he knew. The dead woman's suitcase had now been found in the Perrishes' shed, with blood on it and animal feed in it. Now, it was certainly not unusual for a representative of the animal feed company to have free samples in her suitcase.  
He did not yet understand the connection, and did not yet understand why young Mr. Perrish should have murdered Mrs. Wilson, if he had done it.

Well, anyway, there wasn't much he could do at the moment, and it was late, so he and John should probably go home first.  
Speaking of which, where was John?  
Sherlock jumped off the shelf and scurried out of the shed.  
His friend was sitting outside, a bit away from the shed door, his head bowed and his ears hanging.  
"Come on, John, let's..." Sherlock was about to start when he noticed that the puppy was shaking all over.  
"What about you?" Sherlock asked, looking at him with concern.  
At that moment, the little one started panting and with a desperate sounding choking he vomited right in front of Sherlock's paws.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock jumped back in shock.  
John didn't seem well at all. The little boy shivered and whimpered softly.  
Shit.  
Mycroft. Mycroft had to help. ...again.

Sherlock ran to his "master", mewed loudly and slapped claws into Mycroft's socks. Then he pulled at them.  
"Come with me," he moaned, "Right away, please!"  
"What's all this about?! Stop that!" grumbled Mycroft, who had just been answering DI Lestrade. He bent down to his cat to push him off.  
Sherlock once again ran his claws over his hand, whereupon Mycroft pulled them back in horror, took a step to the side and almost fell over Sherlock.  
However, his eyes fell on the little dog, and he saw immediately that something was wrong.

He immediately knelt beside the little one and held his head.  
"Inspector, look, the dog is sick! Please..."  
He looked at Lestrade, whom he had fairly quickly established as a good detective, pleading with him.  
Sherlock hissed loudly and nudged an undigested chunk lying in the middle of the dog's vomit... God, it was disgusting, but he had to give Mycroft the idea, which had also crossed his mind, that was important, and sometimes you have to make sacrifices.

Mycroft shuddered, but Sherlock could see from his expression that he understood  
"Inspector, I fed the little one the same dog food ... I got a free sample from Mr. Perrish..."  
Lestrade immediately realized what had to be done.  
"Anderson!" he shouted. "Have this animal food tested for poison!"  
"Right away, boss."  
"And we," he said to his young colleague, "will now drive the boy and the dog to the nearest vet. Quickly!"  
Mycroft had carefully picked John up.  
"Dr Miller in Hamilton Street," he said breathlessly, as he spoke calmly to the little animal and stroked him gently on the back.  
"Let's go."

No sooner were they in the car than Mycroft asked quietly:  
"Inspector, would you be good enough to ring the Watsons' house? The Watsons own little John, Harriet, actually. She's a... she's a friend, and I'm sure she's worried."  
Lestrade nodded, took his own phone and asked Mycroft to give him the number.  
Then he phoned.  
He got Mr Watson on the phone and told him what was going on.  
"Oh, God. Thanks for calling, Inspector. I'm going to wake Harriet, she's already asleep, and we'll come straight down to the vet's office."  
The obviously upset man ended the conversation.

They stopped in front of Dr. Miller's house, who had his office downstairs and lived on the upper floor.  
Of course, he'd left work long ago. But when he heard the doorbell ring, he immediately realized that it must be an emergency and ran down to let the late guests in.  
He immediately grasped the situation.  
"This one belongs to the Watsons, doesn't it? Okay, son, you're coming down to the consulting room. And you, mister, you stay here in the anteroom. You can wait here."  
And Mycroft, with the little dog in his arms, followed.

Dr Miller listened to what had happened, then drizzled something on John's tongue, causing him to vomit up whatever was left in his tummy. Then he pulled out a syringe.  
"This will make him fall asleep."  
Mycroft's eyes widened in terror.  
Fall asleep? Wasn't that a euphemism used in animals to describe dying...?  
But Dr Miller noticed his eyes.  
"Don't be afraid, I really only mean sleep. He needs to rest, I'm going to put him on a detox drip, and it's best if he does sleep. I'll keep him here until he gets back on his feet."

You could hear voices in the hallway. The door opened and Harriet rushed in.  
"I'm sorry," Lestrade was heard, "I couldn't stop her."  
Harriet had run to the treatment table and gently stroked John's little head. The little one had fallen asleep.  
"Is he going to be all right?" asked the girl, pleading first with the doctor, then with Mycroft.  
Dr Miller sighed.  
"I suppose so, but I can't say for certain because I don't know what sort of poison it was."  
Harriet cried.  
Mycroft stepped forward. He hesitated for a tiny moment, but then he put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him, gratefully.  
And though Mycroft was as terribly worried about John as she was, he couldn't help but enjoy that moment a little bit.

"The little one stays here tonight," Dr Miller said. "I'll phone you if there's any change. And now it would be best if we left him alone and you all went home."  
They left the practice slowly and with their heads hanging down.  
Outside the door, Mycroft's gaze fell on Sherlock. The cat was sitting there, staring up at him.  
"You want to know how your friend is doing, don't you?"  
"Meow."  
"We don't know yet. We'll know more tomorrow. All we can do is wait and hope for the best."  
"Meow."  
"Come on, Sherlock. Let's all go home."  
Sherlock never moved an inch. Mycroft crouched down to pick him up, but the cat hissed and clawed him, for the second time that evening, and walked backwards a bit.  
"Very well, wait here."  
Mycroft could understand the cat. He was also concerned about...  
Then he shook his head over himself. The cat was a clever animal, yes. ...but it was time he stopped anthropomorphizing him.

The Holmes' and the Watsons went home (Harry was also accompanied by her father). There was nothing they could do at the moment.  
Everything else was up to the vet.  
And the police.


	11. Chapter 11

Lestrade and the young policeman had meanwhile driven back to the Perrishs' home.  
They arrived at the exact moment when a taxi stopped a few yards away and young Mr. Perrish got out.  
When he saw the police car, he jumped back into the taxi and shouted at the driver. But the driver had also seen the blue light and did not seem to want to be chased by the police. So he just stayed where he was.

Lestrade had started to move.  
Perrish jumped out of the car on the other side and ran into the street.  
He crossed it and disappeared between the houses in an alley.  
Lestrade tried to follow him.  
Unfortunately, just at that moment, some youths on their motorcycles came crashing down the street. He had to wait a few moments for them to pass. And when he finally ran into the alley on the other side, he could no longer see where the young man had disappeared to.  
He cursed loudly and put out an alarm.

Sherlock was lying on the terrace outside Dr Miller's house. The doctor had noticed the cat and tried to lure him into the house with a comfy blanket so that he wouldn't have to sleep outside. But Sherlock preferred to avoid the vet. He hated tests and injections and the like and thought it better not to expose himself to anything voluntarily. It was bad enough when Mycroft took him to the vet now and again for some stupid vaccinations, or when he hurt his hind paw. It was annoying that so much attention had to be paid to this stupid body, which after all was nothing more than a transport vessel for his bright mind.  
Now, at least, he would not put a paw into this veterinary practice.  
So the doctor, who didn't want to force him, had finally packed the blanket for him on the terrace and put a bowl of milk there.  
At first Sherlock had only hissed.  
Later, when he was alone, he had finally tasted a little milk.  
And now he was lying here and decided not to move an inch away from here until his friend would get better.

He was not feeling well. His heart hurt him and he did not like that.  
But that must have been what happened to you when you had friendships. It seemed that he had been right in his opinion that friendship didn't bring any advantages and only disturbed your thinking. Friendship was for losers, all right. As soon as all this was over, he should end this useless and painful friendship with the little dog.  
Yes, he should.  
But, uh...  
He realized that his stupid heart disagreed and threatened to hurt him even more. And even worse than now. And that it wasn't going to stop anytime soon. When he saw his friend's face in front of him and imagined how sad John would look and howl when he actually did that...  
He sighed and realized that he would never be able to do that and if he was honest, he didn't want to. He just liked the little one and he liked their friendship.  
So he'd watch here until John was well again and then...

He had to think.  
If he would succeed in helping the police to solve the case, then the one who did this to John could be punished. And if the animal food in the suitcase was also poisoned, then the question was, what was the point?  
And was there more of it? A frightening thought.  
All the evidence seemed to point to Mr. Perrish's son. But something was wrong. Something was bothering him.  
Anyway, he'd try to sleep, and maybe the next morning he'd remember what it was.

He could feel the warm night wind brush against his fur. Some kind of insect was buzzing past his right ear.  
In the distance a dog was barking.  
There was a rustling in the bushes, probably some small animal, a mouse or something... normally he would have flown there now, full of curiosity and the urge to hunt, but now...  
No, all he could think about was this case.  
And John.

He should really try to sleep now. He needed a fresh, rested head if he was gonna solve this whole mess. And he would. Now it wasn't a case that was interesting to him anymore. Yeah, it wasn't even about helping his friend.

It was about poisoning his friend.  
John was in there fighting for his life.  
And that, Sherlock felt full of fury, that attacked him personally.  
John was the first creature in his life with whom he ever felt friendship. Well, apart from Mycroft, but this was different.  
And Sherlock's friends were not to be attacked with impunity.  
You don't want to mess with Sherlock.  
Not when it came to his friend.

Eventually, he just dozed off. He heard a car drive past, heard it stop, heard the sound of a garage door...  
Garage door.  
Something called it out in him.  
A car coming home, the garage opens, the car goes inside...  
He'd already been through it once today...  
In what context, and why was it running around in his head all the time...

He drove up and was suddenly wide awake.  
That's what bothered him!  
Mr. Perrish had told the police that he had been at home all day since he was on vacation. But that was not true! He had been away, and he had come home at his usual time in the afternoon, after all he had been John's timepiece for when he was supposed to meet Sherlock again.  
Mr. Perrish had told the untruth at this point.

But why?


	12. Chapter 12

It was around morning by now. Dusk was falling and the first early risers were on their way to work.  
What would Sherlock do now? Should he continue to wait until he learned more about John? Or should he go and get to the bottom of it, to find out why Mr. Perrish had been untruthful on this point?  
He looked at the porch door, at the street, and back again at the porch door. Then he decided to stay. John was more important to him, as he discovered to his own surprise.  
So he stretched, had a few sips of milk for breakfast and snuggled up on the blanket again. He fell asleep shortly afterwards.

He only woke up again just before Dr. Miller opened his practice for consultation. Mr Watson and Harriet were already there, as were Mycroft and DI Lestrade. Dr Miller let them all in, and Sherlock also scurried into the house.  
"Well," said the vet. "You don't need to worry any more. Little John will be fine."  
Harriet sobbed with joy. Mycroft beamed and squeezed her hand.  
"He was very lucky to be brought to me so quickly. He's still weak, I'm going to keep him here and keep him on a drip. Tonight, before I close my practice, you can pick him up. He shouldn't be out of the house for a few days, and he should be on a diet."  
"Well thank heavens," Lestrade said with relief. "Look doctor, we know now what kind of poison it is. We've informed the manufacturer, the same company that Mrs. Wilson worked for. They've stopped production and started a recall."  
He looked serious.  
"It's quite a blow to the company. We're investigating if this is a targeted attack."

Sherlock was sitting at Lestrade's feet. He understood that John would survive and a stone had fallen from his heart. He was unspeakably relieved. John, his friend John was going to be okay. His little cat heart was beating with joy. 

Harriet was allowed to visit her little dog. But the dog was asleep. As she stroked him gently, his little paws twitched. Sherlock had slipped in with her. He jumped onto the table where the sleeping basket was, where John was lying. He licked him gently over the head.

A short time later, the cat was seen running through the streets. He scoured a few backyards until he found the one he was looking for. It was a couple of strays that brought him news every now and then. There were just a few questions that he wanted answered, a few problems that he wanted solved.  
And his friends who lived on the street were simply a wide net and had the best possibilities to get information.  
He wanted to know where Mr. Perrish worked. Where his way home was. What young Perrish's girlfriend's name and where she lived.  
He had no idea if any of this was important, but he just didn't want to miss anything. 

Afterwards he walked to the Wilsons' house. Again, he did not know if he would learn anything important. But he would leave no stone unturned.  
When he got there, he ran into Lestrade, whom Clara's father, Mr. Wilson, had just opened the door.  
"Good morning, Mr Wilson, I thought I'd bring you up to date... Hey, what are you doing here?"  
Sherlock wrapped himself around his legs and purred. Lestrade crouched down to him. Sherlock made no move to leave him, so he picked him up.  
Then he entered the living room with the cat. Mr Wilson offered him tea, but he politely declined.  
"Well, Mr Wilson, we don't know much yet. We know that your wife obviously didn't know about the whole thing with the poisoned food. At least until yesterday. It's possible she found out and that's why it..."  
He was silent for a moment, and then he went on.  
"We do not know who is behind it, nor why the food was poisoned. If we could find that out, we would be a long way off."  
Clara's father sighed.  
"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about it."  
Lestrade nodded. Then he got up and said goodbye.

Outside the house, Sherlock leapt off his arm. He cuddled his head once more against Lestrade's leg, whom he had also taken quite fond of the policeman by now.  
Then he ran away.

Two streets away he met Wiggins. One of the strays, a young, albeit ugly tomcat. He made a wild meowing sound when he saw Sherlock.  
"Sheeerlock, Sheeerlock, Sheeerlock. ...come here."  
"Wiggins, you got something for me?  
"Yes, meow. We've found something."  
He looked at Sherlock expectantly.  
He rolled his eyes.  
"Yeah, all right. I'll get Mycroft to feed me on the porch again, then I'll let you guys eat. One week."  
Wiggins nodded happily.  
Sherlock wouldn't mind not eating for a few days. He regarded his body as an unimportant vessel for his clever mind anyway.  
"So, Wiggins, tell me. What have you found out?"  
Wiggins smiled. His whiskers trembled.  
"Young Mr. Perrish has no girlfriend."  
Sherlock raised his eyebrow.  
"...but a boyfriend. And his arch-conservative father tries to hide this fact from the neighborhood. That's why he was out this afternoon. He wanted to talk to his son and, once again, talk his boyfriend out of it."  
Wiggins looked very pleased.  
"He couldn't, of course. And guess who that friend is?"  
Sherlock was just one big fat question mark.


	13. Chapter 13

Wiggins grinned and wiped his paw across his muzzle.  
Sherlock's whiskers trembled.  
"Jesus Christ, Wiggins, come on!"

"Well, my dear Sherlock," grumbled the ugly little stray, "the lover of our good Mr Perrish Junior is none other than the much-appreciated Dr Miller."  
Sherlock's eyes were open.  
"What? You're kidding..."  
"Oh, no," the other one complained, "and they've been together for a really long time. The doctor lives above the clinic, but he's bought a house on the outskirts of town that the young Perrish is currently fixing up for them. They have big plans, want to move in together, want to marry..."  
"Wiggins," Sherlock said, "thank you. Come over to our place tonight and you'll get your first feed."  
"I've got another piece of information for you."  
Wiggins' eyes glowed.  
"Come on, tell me!" hissed Sherlock.  
"Well, meow, young Perrish has changed jobs. To another dog food company. Hensson & Company."  
Well, that was very interesting. It gave the whole thing a new look...  
"Thank you," Sherlock said. "Wiggins, you've been a really big help."  
Wiggins purred happily and trotted around the next corner of the house.

Sherlock, on the other hand, thought. He had his eyes closed and his ears pinned back. His front paws were crossed and his tail was wrapped around his body. Thus he had escaped the outside world and wandered through his thought palace.  
That's what he called the collection of all memories, all the facts, glances, scraps of words ever absorbed... everything that had ever come into the range of his clever brain.

So Dr. Miller.  
Dr. Miller was young Perrish's boyfriend and he kept it a secret.  
Now, it could be innocent reasons, but...  
Sherlock decided to rethink the whole story from the beginning and pick up any loose ends.

It all started with the death of Mrs. Wilson.  
Why had she been killed? Well, probably because she'd somehow found out that the food in her suitcase, which she distributed as free samples to advertise and make new contracts, was poisoned.  
The suitcase with the poisoned contents had been removed.  
Why? And why in the Perrishs' shed of all places?  
Well, quite clearly: so that no one would find out the reason for the murder of the woman, because if Sherlock hadn't deduced the existence of the suitcase and hadn't searched for it specifically, it would never have been discovered.  
Right, let's get on with it.  
Perhaps the poisoning of the food would never have been discovered either, if it hadn't been for a chain of coincidences that John of all dogs had been fed by it.  
And as Mycroft had been given the food by the elderly Mr Perrish, he could rule him out as a suspect.

But why was it poisoned?  
Something was haunting his mind. Something he had seen in the doctor's office.  
He crept through his mind palace on silent paws, searching for the right object.  
And then he found it.  
It had hung on the wall of the waiting room.  
It was a poster, more precisely an advertising poster for a new kind of dog food.  
It showed a dog and a cat in front of the silhouette of London and it said:  
"Dr Miller's Finest. Best food for cats and dogs.  
Coming soon."  
And just underneath it:  
"Manufactured by Hensson & Co."

Hensson & Company. The rival company to the company Clara's mother used to work for, and young Perrish had also been employed until recently.  
Hensson & Co. The company where he was now employed.  
And now all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and together they formed a fitting picture.

The food had been poisoned to eliminate the annoying competition so that Dr. Miller could sell his own food all the better. The purchase of the country house had probably been too much for his wallet after all, so that he felt compelled to use such methods ...  
Imagine what the consequences would have been if all the poisoned food had been put into circulation. Mrs. Wilson's company could have closed down. The whole affair was hard enough as it was, but under those circumstances, it would have been ruined.  
But Mrs. Wilson had discovered the sabotage, however she had succeeded.  
She had been beaten to death, the suitcase taken away, and hoped the murder would pass as suicide, embedded in the series of strange suicides that had been shaking the city for some time.  
And it certainly would have worked, if it hadn't been for Sherlock, who had got the whole thing figured out.

And John.  
Because John put him up to it, John helped him and nearly died.  
Oh, God, John! The puppy was still in the doctor's hands!  
Sherlock was scared to death at first, but then he said to himself that the doctor could not dare harm the little one now.  
Nevertheless, he immediately made his way back to the clinic. Better safe than sorry.  
First he would make sure John was safe.  
Afterwards he would try to find out who had really murdered Mrs. Wilson: the doctor or his friend.  
And then he'd have to think of a way to make it clear to Lestrade

But first, yes, first he'd have to take care of John.


	14. Chapter 14

He scurries through streets and around corners.  
His heart was pounding. Sure, he said to himself, nothing would have happened to John. And yet, he would only be calmed when he knew for sure.  
He was quick, and so it was not long before he arrived at Dr Miller's office.  
He let the structure of the lower floor of the house pass before his inner eye.  
When one entered, one was at the reception desk. Behind it, you came to the waiting room, and straight through the waiting room you went to the actual treatment room. To the right of this room, the door led to the stairway to the private rooms, as well as two other doors, probably office and medicine store.  
To the left, however, was the room intended for the animals that had to stay overnight.  
This is where John would be, and this is where Sherlock had to enter.  
But how?  
He couldn't just walk up to reception and say, "Have a nice day, my dear, I'd like to visit little John Watson?"  
Well, of course he could, but once again, the stupid humans wouldn't understand a word. It was a getting old.

On the other hand - no guts, no glory. And so he decided to do just that.  
He slipped into the house with the next master who entered the practice, with a somewhat wingless parrot sitting on the bar of his cage with him.  
Sherlock scurried past him, leaping with an elegant leap onto the reception table and muttering as loud as he could, "I want to see Jawn!"  
Dr Miller's receptionist looked surprised. Then she recognized him.  
"Hey, you're that little John's friend, aren't you?"  
Sherlock made a pathetic, pleading meow.  
The receptionist gently stroked him over the head. His little ears twitched.  
"His little friend, a Labrador puppy, is in the back of the observation room with us. I'm sure he wants to look after him," she said with a smile to the man with the birdcage.  
"Please go into the waiting room, Mr. Henley. The doctor will call you."  
The parrot man nodded and disappeared.

The friendly woman, however, now turned to Sherlock.  
"Come along, my pretty one," she said and took him in her arms.  
She entered the overnight room with him through a side door. Good, that was good, because he wanted to see John first, before he might turn himself against Dr Miller.

John was lying in a basket with his head on his front paws. He poked his ears and looked up as the door opened. No sooner had he seen Sherlock than his eyes began to glow and his tail wagged.  
"Sherlock!" he squeaked.  
The woman put the cat down on the floor and he ran straight to his friend. Carefully, he licked his nose.  
"I'll pick you up in an hour, and you two behave yourselves, okay?" she said and went back to the reception.

No sooner was the door closed than Sherlock only had eyes for John. He nestled his head against him and asked quietly:  
"Jawn, are you OK?"  
"Yes," said the puppy. "I'm still a bit weak. But my belly no longer hurts. And I could even eat a little bit before."  
Sherlock got startled.  
"Who fed you?" he asked quickly.  
"The nice woman," John said. "She gave me some of the food that Dr Miller is about to launch. It tastes really good!"  
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. There'd be nothing wrong with this food. Still, he worried.  
"John," he said, "it would be better if you get away from here!"

"But why?" asked John, startled. "Tonight I will be picked up, and in the meantime I should recover. It's boring here, but the doctor and his assistant are very nice!"  
"Well, John, that may be so, but I'm afraid for you." And Sherlock started to tell his friend what he'd found out with the help of his stray friends and his clever mind.  
"Oh, dear," the little one howled softly, "then maybe I really am in danger here!"  
"I don't think," said Sherlock, "that there is any immediate danger for you. But to be honest, I'd feel better if I could at least stay with you."

The door opened and the nurse entered. She squatted down and lured:  
"Come on, puss. I'm gonna take you back outside now. Here, kitty, kitty."  
Sherlock, however, humped and let his tail grow into a thick bush and hissed in her direction. He pulled out his claws, threatening her.  
She laughed friendly. "Well, little one, you wouldn't want to part with your mate, would you? You're really cute, little ones."  
Cute! Sherlock just wanted to roll his eyes. But he bucked it up and said the cutest little "meow!"  
John squeaked his approval.  
"Mmm," she said, "what are we doing?"  
She turned to one of the cupboards and took out a bowl. She filled it with water and placed it near Sherlock and held her hand out to him to calm him down.  
"There you go, handsome. If you want to stay, stay. But don't you try anything funny with John. He needs to rest, do you hear?"  
Sherlock licked her hand with his rough little cat's tongue.

She left the room and Sherlock quickly snuggled up with John in his basket.  
He couldn't get John out of here. But the puppy would no longer be without protection. He would defend him, with his claws and teeth, just as John had defended him against the fat cat Anderson. And if he were to die in the process, he would accept that. John was important to him.

Friendship was a strange thing.


	15. Chapter 15

They were asleep. It was so quiet and peaceful in this room that they had just fallen asleep.  
Sherlock woke up when the door to the consulting room opened. At first he blinked sleepily, but then he recognized who had entered the room: Dr. Miller himself. He was immediately wide awake. His whiskers trembled.  
The vet, however, did not pay attention to the two in the basket. He had a mobile phone on his ear and spoke with a face distorted with anger and a biting voice:  
"I told you not to call me! Damn it!"  
Sherlock kept his eyes almost closed and breathed calmly, so you one believe he was asleep. John seemed so exhausted from his medication and all the excitement that he slept too deeply to wake up from it.  
"No, listen," the doctor railed quietly into the phone.  
„…“  
"No, you listen to me now! It was necessary! You know very well that I'll be broke if the sale of the new pet food doesn't start quickly and well. And then all our dreams will be shattered.“  
„…“  
"No, my dear, you were..."  
His voice was raised. He pulled himself together and spoke again more quietly, although still angry.  
"You were the one who wanted a house in the country... so don't give me that moral lecture!"  
„...“  
"You stay where you are, don't move from there. I'll finish sooner. I'm coming to you. Yes, I'll be there in a bit. After all, I haven't been to our dream house for a few days, and I want to enjoy it with you... and then we can talk. Okay?"  
He made his voice soft and friendly. But the sensitive cat sensed that anger was seething inside him. And when he hung up, he could hear the doctor ranting, "Damn! Damn, damn, damn!"

Him. Miller looked around the room indecisively. He continued to pay no attention to the two animals, and at that moment Sherlock was grateful for the first time that people did not understand the language of the animals, but above all that they had no idea that the animals understood every word of what was being said in human language.  
The doctor went to one of the cupboards and took out a pack of ampoules and a syringe. Sherlock knew the drug. He had already seen it in practice and realized its purpose. It was a medicine to put animals into anaesthetic sleep before an operation or something similar. A horse was pictured on the pack, suggesting that it was the one with the highest dosage.  
And from the look of Doctor Miller, he certainly didn't have anything good in mind with that.

Sherlock was thinking. His brain was rattling, lightning was shooting through his synapses.  
It was certain that the vet had spoken to his friend, young Perrish.  
From what he'd just said, Sherlock concluded, for one thing, that it was he who had killed Clara's mum. And for another, that his friend had obviously figured it out and was now having moral qualms.  
And from the way the doctor reacted, surely he was up to no good.

No sooner had the doctor left the room than Sherlock licked the little dog's face and whispered: "John! John! Wake up!"  
John blinked.  
"What's wrong?"  
He gave Sherlock a sleepy look and sneezed.  
"John, I know who did this. Listen."  
And he hurriedly told his friend about the conversation he'd just overheard.  
John was stunned.  
"Sherlock!" he barked softly.  
"We have to do something!"

Yeah, hell, they had to. But what?  
"Sherlock," John squeaked, "you have to get out of here. I'll be fine. I'll be picked up by Harriet soon, anyway. And now that I know that it's not safe here, I'm going to take good care of myself. After all, I won't be a puppy any more, I'll be full-grown soon!"  
Oh, little one, thought Sherlock with a gentle smile. But John was right in so far as Sherlock now simply had to rely on John being able to manage.

"Now, Sherlock, why don't you go and stand by the door, and I'll bark loudly. And when the nurse comes, I'll jump around them as if I have to pee ... well, actually, if I'm being honest, I do. She'll put a leash on me. But you can slip out with me and then just disappear."  
Sherlock nodded.  
Yes, one had to admit, John was a very practical guy when it came down to it.  
"Okay," Sherlock said, "this is how we do it."  
And what would happen next?  
Well, he hadn't quite got the right idea. But anyway, somehow, he had to let Lestrade know that he'd found the killer. And he had to stop the doctor from becoming a killer again... on his boyfriend.

No sooner said than done. A short time later, John was on a leash, held by the nice receptionist, in the garden of the house to pee. And Sherlock had come with them, then scampered up a tree and out through a shed roof. He could still hear John's barking behind him, "Take care!"  
"I will," he meowed and scurried off a few blocks away.  
Well, what now?  
Could he have done anything to let Mycroft know that he needed his help? But what would Mycroft do, and how would he get it across to him?  
Or was he going to try and find Lestrade? But he had no idea where that policeman was now!  
And the house... somehow he could get there, and try and protect young Perrish? But again, he didn't know where the house was... well, maybe Wiggins could find out, but then it might be too late.

Oh, man, he could've used John's help right about now.  
He was mewling desperately. It was rare enough that he, the clever one, who is intellectually superior to most animals and almost all humans except perhaps Mycroft, felt helpless and just didn't know what to do.

Suddenly he heard a familiar barking and to his greatest amazement he saw John running towards him.  
"Sherlock!" barked young Labrador.  
"I got away from them! I just couldn't help myself!"  
And a smile of relief spread across Sherlock's face.


	16. Chapter 16

He was just happy to have John by his side. Relieved, he licked his friend's face and said, "Oh John, good to have you here. I could really use some help, and there's no one better suited for the job than you." John's puppy-dog eyes sparkled and he wagged his tail like crazy.  
"Get away, did you say?" Sherlock asked.  
John yapped briefly.  
"Yes," he said. "As the nice woman walked back into the house with me through the reception area, someone came through the front door. A woman with a sick hamster. And there I pulled the leash very hard and it slipped out of her hand. Then I rushed out the door. Outside I picked up your trail and, bada bing, here I am."  
Sherlock smiled.

There was a shout in the distance.  
"John! Joooohn! Come here, come here."  
"They're looking for me," said the little guy.  
"Come on," said Sherlock and dashed into a nearby bush. John followed him. They pressed themselves to the ground and held still.  
"They won't find us here," squealed John softly, "but what are we going to do?"  
Sherlock thought.  
Then he said:  
"John, now that you've escaped, do you think they'll phone your house?"  
John nodded.  
"Your people will come here looking for you?"  
"I'm sure they will. Especially Harriet..." and the good-hearted John looked guilty again.  
"Good," said Sherlock, "because I'm sure that if Harriet does come, then..." and he brushed his whiskers in embarrassment.  
"Well, then... Mycroft will be there too."  
"Do you think so?" asked John, curiously tilting his head.  
"Yes," said Sherlock. "The two of them... like each other."

He grinned at John and wagged his tail again.  
"Well, my friend," said Sherlock, "now we just need to come up with an idea how to get Mycroft to help us."  
They looked at each other and started thinking.  
The shouting had died down, the search had probably been stopped for the time being, and the two animals set off back towards the surgery. They hid again in a bush, but this time within sight of the front door.

A short time later the Watsons' car stopped in front of the house. Father Watson got out with Harriet and indeed, as expected, Mycroft.  
"I have an idea," cried John, and dashed off.  
"Oh, blimey, that little jumping jack-in-the-box," cursed Sherlock, and ran after him, keeping his distance for now.  
John ran around his mistress and Mycroft, barking and limping with his paw.  
"John, you little rascal, there you are," cried Harriet, "I was worried! Just running away! What's the matter with you!" She had crouched down on the floor with John and stroked the little one lovingly.  
"There's something on his paw," said Mycroft.  
Mr Watson turned to the vet, who had stepped out the door, with a scowl on his face.  
"You didn't pay enough attention to him, and now he's hurt on his paw! There'll be consequences!"  
You could tell the doctor was very uncomfortable with the whole situation. Right now he didn't need any more trouble.  
"I'm terribly sorry. And I will of course take care of John's paw right away."  
And he waved Harriet, who was now holding John, Mr. Watson and Mycroft inside. And Sherlock, yes, he followed as well.  
As he walked through the waiting room, John began to bark, "Sherlock! Sherlock! Show Mycroft the poster."  
Sherlock understood immediately and went right for Mycroft. He began to pull on his trouser leg with his claws, leaving the boy behind and the door to the treatment room slamming shut behind the others.  
Then the cat let go of the boy and ran loudly mewing to the poster.

Mycroft knew his cat. He knew there must be a reason why he was behaving so strangely, but he had no idea what it was.  
"What is it, Sherlock," he asked, bowing down and stroking the animal, looking at the cat as if he really expected an answer.  
Sherlock jumped up on the chair that was directly below the poster and muttered insistently. And finally Mycroft's eyes fell on the poster and he read what was written there. And somewhere in the back of his head a bell began to ring.

John had meanwhile patiently had his paw examined, where of course the doctor found nothing. It was cleaned and smeared with pain-relieving ointment.  
"He's a bit of a little rascal, isn't he?", the doctor asked.  
"Yes," said Harriet and smiled almost proudly as she picked up her dog again. "He's a cute little robber, but a very sweet one. I'm so glad he's well again."  
And she snuggled her face in John's fur.

"Well," Dr Miller said to Mr Watson, "you should..."  
John, however, had at that moment discovered the doctor's cell phone on his desk. He acted with lightning speed.  
He began to fidget on Harriet's arm, making it impossible for her to hold him any longer. She wanted to put him down but he jumped out of her arm and landed on all fours on this desk. Then he grabbed the phone with his teeth and jumped off the desk. He ran out of the door that Mr Watson had just opened for Harriet, into the waiting room and dropped the phone at Mycroft's feet.  
It was a matter of seconds, because, of course, the doctor had run after him immediately and called out:  
"Fie, John! Let go!"  
But by the time he was with them and the phone was handed over from Mycroft's hands, who of course had picked it up, the boy had managed to look at the display.  
And Mycroft had recognised the background image.  
It was the picture of young Mr Perrish.


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft returned the phone to the doctor with a fake smile on his lips. Harriet, who had meanwhile joined in, ruffled John's head and scolded affectionately:  
"What have you done now?"  
Mycroft had also bent down and scratched the head of his cat.

He had glanced at the phone's display, but he recognised the picture immediately. What the hell was a snapshot of young Perrish doing on the doctor's mobile phone? A background picture like that, you generally didn't have just anyone, but a person you cared about. Right?

And then the puzzle pieces in his head started falling into place.  
Mrs. Wilson and Perrish Jr., who had both worked in the same animal food company.  
The food that had been poisoned.  
Perrish's photo on the vet's phone.  
Perrish, who apparently had a close relationship with the doctor.  
New pet food that the doctor was marketing.  
Mycroft was young, very young. But he was bloody clever. And Sherlock could see in his eyes that he understood.  
Deep relief flooded through the cat, and he felt gratitude for his "master" at the moment, and was convinced that he would know what to do now.

Dr. Miller apologized again that John had run away earlier, and acted as the distressed doctor, intent on making reparations. Harriet and Mr Watson apologised for John's antics.  
In the end, Mr. Watson, despite everything, parted company, still a little angry.

No sooner had they stepped out into the street and all together, including the two animals, got into the car, Sherlock expectantly on Mycroft's lap, John at Harriet's feet, when Mycroft put his hand on Mr Watson's arm and asked him:  
"Mr Watson, please don't drive just yet. We need to call the police. Now. Please!"  
Harriet's father looked at him with the greatest astonishment.  
"The police? Why? What is the matter?"  
"Well, I think I may have stumbled onto something."  
And he began to explain the various facts to Mr. Watson and to debate his conclusions.

The man was quite flabbergasted.  
"Dr. Miller? He's involved in all this? I find it hard to imagine, but the way you put it, Mycroft, one must automatically conclude...“  
And as Mr Watson was a man who took facts as facts, and did not bend to his liking, he picked up his mobile phone and dialled the number of the detective Inspector Lestrade, whom he had come to know as a competent and patient man.  
He spoke briefly to him and passed the mobile phone on to Mycroft who told the Inspector the whole thing.

"Please stay there. Keep an eye on Dr. Miller. And if he tries to leave the house, try to engage him in conversation. We'll be there in a few minutes," Lestrade said before he finished the call.  
They stayed in the car. Only a few people came out of the door with their animals, others went in, but the doctor did not show himself. He had to hold his office hours and probably didn't want to risk ending them prematurely to avoid attracting attention.  
When the police car arrived, Lestrade joined them with two uniformed policemen. Mycroft had to describe again what he had noticed and how it had happened.  
Lestrade looked at him seriously.  
"Well, if what you say is true, you've done us a great service," he said.  
"But I would never have thought of it on my own. If it weren't for the animals... sometimes I think they know more than they can tell us," said Mycroft with a wry smile.  
John yapped softly and Sherlock rolled his eyes and mewed.  
How right you are, Mycroft, how right you are. And that's what makes this whole thing so complicated.

* * *

Now it was all happening at once. The policemen took the doctor from his practice and took him to the station. In the official jargon, to assist them in their investigation.  
Within a very short time, they found out what he had to do with young Perrish and where this young man was staying. So he too was called in to Scotland Yard.  
And he, who had done nothing wrong to himself, was soon a bundle of nerves and told everything he knew. He had only found out about everything, the poisoned food, the murder, etc., when it had already happened, and the only thing they could accuse him of was that he had kept silent out of fear and love.

The doctor was responsible for the poisoned food. He had wanted to eliminate the competition in order to promote his own food and get maximum profit.  
He was also responsible for Mrs. Wilson's death. She had found out about his schemes because young Perrish, in his anxiety, had poured his heart out to her, insinuating. She had confronted Miller, and he had lost his head and beaten her to death.  
Then he had persuaded his young lover to hide the suitcase with the poisoned stuff in his father's shed.  
There was no way for Miller to talk his way out of this. He was imprisoned, and it looked as if he would not see freedom again for a long, long time.  
Young Mr. Perrish got off with a suspended sentence for obstruction of justice. But it was much worse for him to realize that the love of his life hadn't really loved him, he' d just taken advantage of it.

Clara was of course still sad about her mom's death, but now that she knew what had happened and that the perpetrator was behind bars and being given his well-deserved punishment, she could process the whole thing better. Harriet helped her and Mycroft too, because he did not leave Harriet's side. He just liked her, and she also really liked him in the meantime.

Mycroft was sent a large parcel of cat and dog food by Mrs Wilson's company because he had given the crucial clue.  
"That's good," he said, "because actually, those two animals solved the case. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have been able to figure it out either."  
He passed the dog food on to Harriet, but kept a few packets so that there was always something for John at the house.

* * *

On the day of the trial, after the doctor was indeed sentenced to a long prison term, Detective Inspector Lestrade came to visit.  
Harriet and John were also there, and Sherlock crept purring around Mycroft and the Inspector's legs. The policeman gave a full account of what had happened in the courtroom.  
Finally, he said:  
"Well, we might not have solved this case without our two four-legged friends here. You should be very proud of them." Harriet was smiling and yes, Mycroft was smiling as well.  
The inspector reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a collar made of the softest leather, with a police badge attached to it. He gave it to Mycroft.  
"This is for Sherlock."  
Mycroft looked at the badge. It was marked "Consulting Cat".  
Mycroft stroked his cat on the head. "Do you want it?  
Sherlock looked at him and said, "Meow." Then he put his head up to him and let the collar put on his head.

Straight and highly upright he sat there afterwards, his tail laid around his body in a pose of elegance. His eyes flashed and you could see that he was very proud of himself.  
John wagged excitedly so that his little bottom fidgeted on the floor. For of course, Lestrade had a collar for him as well. On his badge it said, "Police Dog".  
And John, in his willingness, let him put it on as well. Then he yapped happily and in an exuberance of joy he spun around himself a few times.  
People laughed at the two of them and even Sherlock could not help but grin contentedly.

A short time later the people were sitting in the Holmes' living room enjoying the delicious cake made by Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, and a really good tea.  
John and Sherlock lay on a soft blanket and while the cat simply enjoyed the cosy atmosphere, the puppy chewed devotedly on a chewing bone.  
"I would like..." he said quietly, as he briefly let go of the bone, "to join you on your manhunt again." His little tail knocked on the floor.  
"Oh, Jawn," purred the cat, "I think, Meow, I think I'd enjoy it too." John grinned contentedly and began chewing on his chew stick again.

Yes, thought Sherlock, with a friend like John, he could have quite an adventure.  
He was looking forward to it.  
Deeply satisfied, Consulting Cat closed his eyes and dozed off.


End file.
